Chapter 25 Uninvited Guest
So lost in his thoughts, Lorenzo didn’t register his hand drifting too close to the hot skillet again—until pain seared through his skin.
“Damn it,” he hissed under his breath, jerking his hand back. He turned off the burner, the room falling into a tense silence.
Without another word, he walked over to the dining table and planted his unburnt palm on its surface. His other hand curled loosely at his side, still red.
Larry raised an eyebrow as Lorenzo locked eyes with him.
“I want Krystal back,” Lorenzo said, voice low but determined.
Larry exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re such a damn drama. Cold as ice when she was trying to love you. And now, when she’s finally done, you’re losing your mind.”
Lorenzo didn’t even blink. His voice was steady, stripped of ego. “I messed up. I know that now. But I’m not pretending anymore. I mean it. Help me.”
Before Larry could answer, Lorenzo’s phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up: Esther.
His face darkened.
He answered the call with ice in his tone. “Esther, I told you not to call me. If you need anything, talk to Xander.”
Esther’s voice cracked through the speaker, desperate and rushed. “Lorenzo, please... meet me. I’m sorry for lying about being sick. But you’ve been so cold lately. Do I really deserve this? I’m in love with you. Please don’t punish me like this. Are you really cutting me off like this?”
Lorenzo’s tone stayed firm. “I told you already. It was a one-time mistake. I’m married. I have a wife. I’ll never marry anyone else.”
“But didn’t you get divorced?” Esther questioned immediately.
Lorenzo’s jaw tensed. His next words were a growl. “Even if Krystal isn’t my wife legally, she’s the only woman I’ll ever call my wife. I don’t care what the papers say. I won’t marry anyone else.”
He didn’t wait for Esther to respond. He ended the call and tossed the phone on the table with a dull thud.
Across town, Esther sat hunched on the edge of her pristine white bed, her manicured fingers trembling as they clutched her phone like a lifeline. The screen had gone dark, but she still stared at it, as if willing it to light up again with his name.
Tears rolled silently down her cheeks, smudging the edges of her eyeliner. Her breaths came out shallow, uneven.
Her voice was barely audible, more to herself than anyone else—frantic, broken, and scattered. “He’s really done with me? After everything I’ve done to get him these past two years? I can’t lose him. I won’t.”
She wiped her tears with the back of her shaking hand and stood abruptly, pacing in her silk robe, her mind racing faster than her heart. Her reflection in the mirror looked foreign—wild hair, red-rimmed eyes, desperation painted all over her face.
One hour later, she pushed open the door to the fertility clinic with force, drawing startled glances from the receptionist. Her heels clicked aggressively across the sterile tiles as she stormed toward the examination room.
The doctor barely had time to look up before she dropped into the chair opposite him, her back stiff, jaw locked tight with frustration.
“Have you checked my reports yet?” she asked, her tone flat, clipped. “I want to get pregnant as soon as possible. Is my body ready for it? Just give me whatever injections are needed to make sure I conceive in one try.”
Her hands gripped the edge of his desk tightly, knuckles white. Her nails dug into the wood as her eyes gleamed—not with joy or excitement, but with manic determination.
‘All I need is one night. If I get Lorenzo to sleep with me just once… if I have his child, he’ll marry me. He won’t have a choice.’
The doctor’s expression shifted slowly, his features tightening with concern. He removed his glasses and set them aside with care.
“Miss Esther,” he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “I’ve gone through your test results thoroughly.”
A pause.
“They’re not good.”
Esther blinked. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move. The air in the room felt suddenly heavy.
“What do you mean?”
The doctor leaned forward, his voice growing more somber. “You won’t be able to conceive. I’m sorry… but your reproductive system has completely shut down. And worse…” He hesitated. “Your organs are shutting down, too.”
“What?” she whispered, her voice brittle, like thin glass ready to crack.
“Have you been taking any unprescribed medications? Hormonal enhancers, blood thinners, maybe something off the record?” he asked gently. “Because prolonged use of certain drugs can cause irreversible damage.”
He sighed and continued. “Whatever you were taking… it has severely damaged your liver, kidneys, and other systems. You’ll need multiple organ transplants. Without them…” He stopped briefly, letting the words settle. “You have about three months.”
Esther’s world tilted.
Her lips parted in disbelief. The color drained from her face. “That... that’s not possible. I’m going to be Mrs. Moretti soon…”
She sounded like a child reciting a dream she’d told herself one too many times.
The doctor’s voice was filled with regret. “I’m truly sorry. You need to be admitted immediately so we can begin treatment and put you on the transplant list.”
But something shifted behind Esther’s eyes. The panic gave way to fury.
With a sudden scream, she shot up from her chair and slammed her palm down on the desk. A tray of papers and metal instruments clattered to the floor, echoing through the room like shattered glass.
“You’re lying! Trying to scare me? I don’t believe you!” she screamed, eyes blazing. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine! I don’t need your damn pity or your made-up diagnosis!”
She didn’t wait for the doctor to respond. She spun around and stormed out of the room, her heels clacking furiously, mind spiraling into chaos as the haunting shadow of her crumbling reality chased her down the hall.
***
Krystal was halfway through a yawn when the doorbell rang, slicing through the quiet like a sharp knock against her nerves.
Startled, she blinked blearily at the clock. Just after dinner. She’d dozed off on the couch under a blanket, warm and drowsy, the glow of the TV flickering in the background.
With a groggy frown, she pushed herself off the cushions and padded toward the door, her bare feet light against the floor. She unlocked it and pulled it open—only to freeze mid-motion.
Lorenzo stood on the doorstep.
A lunchbox dangled from one hand. His sleeves were rolled up, veins visible down his forearms. His charcoal slacks sat low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered with a belt. And his hair—usually slicked back and precise—was tousled, falling into his forehead in soft waves.
If he hadn’t been so ridiculously handsome, the disheveled look might’ve passed for someone delivering late-night takeout.
“I brought you food,” he said simply, and before she could speak, he stepped right past her and into the house.
Krystal blinked, mouth parted. “What...?” she muttered, spinning around to follow him. “Lorenzo? What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked straight to the dining table and carefully placed the lunchbox down, like it was something precious.
In her haste to catch up, Krystal’s foot slipped on the smooth floor. Her socks gave way, and she let out a sharp gasp. “Ah!”
Lorenzo turned instantly.
The moment he saw her on the floor, he rushed to her instantly. Dropping to a crouch, he reached for her with both hands, his brows furrowed in panic.
“Are you okay? Where does it hurt?” His voice dropped, laced with worry as his eyes scanned her quickly, hands careful as he helped her up.
“I asked—what are you—” she began, flustered.
But before she could finish, he scooped her up in his arms in one swift, effortless motion.
“Lorenzo!” she squealed, both hands flying to his shoulders for balance. Her heart skipped. The sudden closeness, the heat of his body—it knocked the breath out of her chest.
He carried her across the room like she weighed nothing, then gently set her down on the edge of the table, right beside the lunchbox. Her legs dangled above the floor, her hands still braced against him out of reflex.
She stared up at him, stunned.
He took a step back, resting one hand on the belt loop of his pants, and used the other to gesture grandly at the container. His expression was proud, almost boyish.
“I made this. For you.”
Krystal opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
From down the hall, Darren came stumbling out of his bedroom, shirtless and squinting against the living room lights. “Who the hell is in this house now?” he groaned. “I was trying to get a few minutes of sleep!”
Lorenzo’s head snapped toward him. The finger he’d just pointed at the lunchbox now shifted to Darren.
“What the hell is that doing here in the middle of the night?” he snapped. “And why is it shirtless?”
Krystal folded her arms, irritation flickering across her face. “That’s rich, coming from the man who just barged into my house like he owns it. It’s almost midnight, Lorenzo!”
Lorenzo’s jaw ticked. His eyes shifted from Darren to Krystal.
“I came to give you—”
But he didn’t finish.
The front door suddenly burst open again, slamming against the wall.
Startled, Darren stumbled backward and slammed into the doorframe with a loud “Ow—what the—”
The crash made Krystal flinch. She jumped off the table instinctively, her legs unsteady—and straight into Lorenzo’s arms. He caught her instantly, pulling her tight against him, one arm around her back and the other protectively over her head.
He shielded her without thinking.
Both their eyes whipped to the door.
Xander stood there, panting, holding a massive bouquet of flowers that looked like it belonged in a wedding photoshoot.
“Mr. Moretti!” he gasped breathlessly. “You forgot the flowers for Mrs. Moretti!”
Krystal stared, stunned. Her head snapped up toward Lorenzo.
He looked down at her with a grin—and kissed her cheek before she could even process what was happening.
Smack.